


A Place to Rest Your Head

by magdaddy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Friendship (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has Nightmares (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Resolved Misunderstandings, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), im in my feelings rn ok this is fine im fine, just a little bit of canon divergence, just...soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magdaddy/pseuds/magdaddy
Summary: Crowley discovers a love of soft beds, but sleep doesn't come as easily.AKA: Aziraphale is beautiful and soft, and Crowley has been desperately in love for 6,000 years.(inspired by Soft Comfort by Feuerkindjana)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 150





	1. In the Beginning...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feuerkindjana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feuerkindjana/gifts).



> This is my first fic please be nice lol...  
> Feedback is much appreciated, and updates will be coming soon (I promise)!

**Eden**

From where he sat in the tall grass, coiled around a rock and absorbing the last remnants of the sun’s warmth from its smooth surface, Crawly peered at the brand new humans laying together nearby, illuminated by the soft silver moonlight streaming through the canopy of leaves overhead. Adam and Eve held each other, arms wrapped around shoulders, around waists, legs tangled together, breathing slowly and steadily, their eyes closed to the world around them. Crawly was fascinated—he knew of sleep, but only as a concept; angels and demons didn’t engage in it, of course, they didn’t need to, so this was the first time he’d seen it in practice. It looked incredibly peaceful. He wondered what it would be like—to feel so safe and sheltered that he could allow himself to fall unconscious, unguarded and entirely vulnerable to the world.

It was some days later, as he slithered up the Garden’s Eastern wall, towards the angel standing above, that he wondered what it would be like to be held in the arms of another, and to hold them in return. To share their warmth, and take comfort in their presence.

 _Aziraphale_. The angel instantly captivated him, not only with his willingness to converse with a demon, but with his genuine kindness, something almost foreign to Crawly. And then, of course, there was his physical form. Aziraphale was undeniably beautiful, by Crawly’s own standards, as no others were yet in existence. He was all soft, gentle lines and brightness, beautiful in the way that only comes with possession of a truly kind heart. By the time he’d confessed to giving away his flaming sword, Crawly was entirely wrapped around the angel’s pinky finger. 

As he huddled closer under Aziraphale’s wing, sheltered from the rain, he found himself in a strange way—he could begin to imagine what it might be like to feel safe. Standing this close to the angel, feeling the warmth radiating from him, close enough to touch but not foolish enough to try, he let himself imagine what it might be like to lay under the moonlight together, to curl against the angel and absorb his warmth directly, to revel in the comfort of his body.

Surely it must be a sin.

**Rome, 51 AD**

If only Aziraphale knew how little he had to do to tempt Crowley. Truth be told, Crowley wasn’t particularly interested in oysters, but he would take any excuse to spend time with the angel. They’d seen each other on so few occasions since they’d first met on the wall of Eden. They’d fallen into a tense sort of association—not quite a friendship, neither of them would go so far as to say that, but they enjoyed each other’s company whenever they could find it. And there in Rome, they fell into their comfortable fraternity with more ease than ever before. 

_He seemed so pleased to see me,_ Crowley thought, as they settled in with their oysters. He felt a warmth spreading through him at the thought, which had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been drinking.

Oysters, of course, led to more drinking, and drinking led to talking. At some point, they’d been moved to a back room at the inn, the proprietor grumbling something none too kind about how late they had stayed. Aziraphale and Crowley sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the straw-strewn floor with their backs against a wall, passing a bottle between them, cups long since forgotten.

“Oh, is-” Aziraphale slurred, shaking his head slowly and resting it back against the cool stone of the wall, “it’s terrible. What they did to that poor boy.” His head was cocked to the side, his blue eyes swimming in the faint candlelight where they met Crowley’s, hidden behind glasses. Even through their darkened lenses, Crowley was captivated by Aziraphale, held frozen by his gaze.

“Who d’you mean? Wha’ boy?” He asked. He was too drunk to follow the conversation. Or maybe Aziraphale was jumping topics.

“Th-the...erm…” he rubbed at his eyes in a way that reminded Crowley of a bunny rabbit, and he didn’t bother suppressing his smile at the thought. “Jesus! Yes, him. Poor thing,” he finished, leaning his head back once again, but keeping his eyes on Crowley, who hummed in agreement.

“Yeah tha’...mm…’s not fair. To him, I mean. Seems cruel...so much human suffering for the sake of...sake of what, even. Y’know?” Crowley was rambling, but Aziraphale was watching him like he was the most profound philosopher in the Roman Empire. Like he was somebody worth listening to. Crowley’s chest felt tight at that thought. He felt...good. Aziraphale was nodding ever so slightly.

“Rainbows…” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, and Crowley wasn’t sure he heard him clearly. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side, wordlessly prompting Aziraphale to continue. “M’ not sure it’s w-worth...worth the...rainbows.” 

_Oh_. Memory of the flood so many years ago played in his mind. Aziraphale’s expression had turned solemn, and Crowley ached to press his palms against the angel’s cheeks, to bring his thumb up and smooth the lines away from his forehead. But he wasn’t foolish enough to try. He gave him a sympathetic look instead.

“‘S’ hard,” Crowley said, failing to come up with any more comforting words, but they seemed to do the trick. Aziraphale’s expression didn’t exactly soften, but he no longer looked so troubled, though something was clearly still on his mind.

Crowley closed his eyes only for a moment, then, but when he opened them again Aziraphale was impossibly closer to him, his hand only centimeters from his face, paused in his movement, almost as if he had been caught in the act of something, but what exactly that was, he wasn’t sure. Pausing only a moment longer, his eyes searching Crowley’s face for any sign of objection, and evidently finding none, Aziraphale extended his hand forward, and gingerly lifted Crowley’s glasses off his face, and placed them gently in the demon’s hand which was resting palm-up on his knee nearest the angel. Crowley’s eyes had followed the glasses down, and when he looked back up he was met with Aziraphale’s eyes gazing into his own, finally looking properly pleased with himself.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, giving Crowley an easy smile, and making something twist in the pit of his stomach which sent heat prickling up the back of his neck. Crowley wondered belatedly if he was blushing. (He was.)

Aziraphale leaned back once more, his smile interrupted by a yawn so big it seemed to surprise him, which made Crowley chuckle. It was incredibly endearing. 

“Oh my...I’ve, _oh-!_ ” He said, interrupted by another yawn, and rubbed his eyes, little blotches of pink appearing at the apples of his cheeks where his knuckles had pressed. “How novel,” he mumbled, slumping even further against the wall. Crowley smiled to himself, and decided he liked this sleepy drunk Aziraphale.

Their lazy conversation eventually fizzled out between yawns and heavy eyelids. At some point in the night, Aziraphale became aware of a weight pressing against him, something warm and lanky and smelling pleasantly of cloves. Through the slow molasses of his sleep-fogged mind he recognized the slight weight as Crowley, and he was really in no position to do anything but wrap an arm around his waist and settle a hand in his hair, snuggling into the touch, drifting back to sleep like it was where he was meant to be.

Crowley awoke sometime before dawn, as there was still only darkness shining against his closed eyelids. His head ached and his mouth felt sticky and dry with his hangover, but he felt more comfortable than he could ever remember being in his life. He was engulfed in warmth, a solid weight draped around his waist, another around his shoulders. His head was pillowed against something plush, so soft it must be a luxury not of this earth. _This must be paradise,_ he thought through the fog of drowsiness. 

_Wait_ . His eyes snapped open, blinking through the bleariness and taking in his surroundings, shrouded in darkness, the candles long since burned out. His head was pillowed against Aziraphale’s stomach, and it was Aziraphale’s arms which provided the grounding weight wrapped around him. Panic began to set in as he realized that not only had he fallen asleep in Aziraphale’s presence, but that they were _cuddling_ . He was using the angel as a _pillow_ , for Satan’s sake. And it was _so_ damn comfortable. 

Aziraphale was sleeping soundly, his features relaxed and soft, lips slightly parted, pale curls falling over his forehead and mussed adorably atop his head. Crowley was captivated by the sight before him, his muscles growing tense and a swell of unintelligible emotions growing inside him so violently he felt sick. _I’m fucked,_ he thought miserably. 

Carefully, so as not to wake the angel, he extricated himself from their embrace, and fled the scene, not bothering to search for his glasses, but stealing one last glance at the sleeping Aziraphale before all but running out the door.


	2. The Beginning, Still

Stumbling carelessly through the streets of Rome in the still and quiet darkness, Crowley reached his quarters, letting himself in and leaning heavily against the flimsy door, shutting his eyes tightly and cursing God and Satan and most of all, himself. He shouldn’t be feeling...whatever it was he was feeling. It was something indescribable, a writhing mass in the pit of his stomach that threatened to climb up his throat at any given moment; and he was terrified that it might be love. But in that moment, it just made him want to cry—Aziraphale had been so soft, let himself be so vulnerable in Crowley’s presence, even if he’d only passed out from having too many drinks, it still  _ happened _ . And Crowley, God help him, was drowning in it.

There was still time before the sun rose, and his hangover was begging him for more sleep. Crowley opened his eyes and stared down his bed, as yet unused, pushed into the corner of the room, looking barren and neglected, and decided to give it a go. He was tired, after all. He stretched out on the mattress, put his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, and willed unconsciousness to take him. 

The attempt lasted all of three minutes before he threw himself out of it, annoyed and desperately uncomfortable. There was nothing satisfying about this cold, hard bed, which smelled of straw and mildew. And he realized, terribly, that no bed could ever compare to Aziraphale. No bed could be as soft, as warm, or smell as nice—like lavender and honey and everything good in the world. The comfort he felt and the sleep he achieved while nestled in Aziraphale’s arms, specifically, was better than that which any bed could bring him. He was sure of it. And he desperately wished he hadn’t found that out.

**...**

It had been several decades since Crowley and Aziraphale met in Rome, and Crowley steadfastly refused to think about what had happened. It was an ache at the base of his skull, a subtle thing, that he managed to ignore. Most of the time. Those few nights though, coming back to his living quarters wherever he may be, and tossing himself down into the provided beds after a long day of evildoing (or mischief, rather), the ache became something he could no longer ignore, aggravated by lumpy, hard mattresses and creaky bed frames and cold, dark, musty-smelling bedrooms.

He did wonder, sometimes, what happened to Aziraphale after their night together. Of course he felt guilty for leaving the angel alone and vulnerable on the floor of a backroom at the inn. He wondered if Aziraphale had ever slept before. Must not’ve, if his surprise at his yawns were anything to go by. How cruel of him then, how positively  _ demonic _ , for him to have abandoned the angel like that. 

Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought. Somehow, being a good demon never felt good when it came to Aziraphale.

He trudged through the streets, which became less crowded as he made his way out of the city and towards his new accommodations, a villa on a hillside, which he had yet to fully explore. Crowley didn’t normally choose such luxurious (and, frankly, massive) living spaces, since he tried not to spend too much time in them anyways, preferring inns and other less decorous places. This time though, in the south of Roman Gaul (what would later become France), he felt like splurging, if only to have more halls to roam in his loneliness. 

Crowley made his way through the atrium, kicking the door shut behind him, his swaggering pace not slowing, but his shoulders slumped forward. It had been a long day. 

He climbed one staircase, cut through a breezy cloister overlooking a garden (a major reason why he chose this particular villa), and eventually came to a large wooden door with decorative carvings over every centimeter of it. He pushed it open perhaps more roughly than he should have, but he couldn’t care less in that moment. As he passed through the door frame and made his way inside, the walls opened up into an expansive and richly decorated bedroom. Thick, heavy drapes covered the windows, his feet sank into the plush rug, and undoubtedly expensive furniture dotted the room. Most importantly, though, was the bed, large enough to fit a whole family, adorned with the finest silk sheets and exotic quilted blankets, shrouded entirely in a canopy that draped as easily as flowing water. Crowley’s muscles physically ached with his desire to slither into it and wrap himself in its finery. And he did just that, albeit in human form.

It was exactly as decadent as it looked; feather pillows and a mattress softer than any he’d come across to date. Still, though, it wasn’t perfect.  _ It’s not Aziraphale _ , he thought bitterly, and that was the truth of it. It must’ve been the best bed humanity was capable of creating, and here he was still finding things to complain about.  _ Not warm enough, doesn’t smell as nice _ ...he shook his head so violently he ended up rolling over. He did  _ not _ need an angel to be able to sleep. Absolutely not. He didn’t even need to sleep at all. But oh, he craved it. 

Really, the bed was pretty nice, and the way he sank into it reminded him of Aziraphale. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought,  _ this will have to do _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> More chapters coming soon, and feedback is always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**The Globe Theater, 1601**

Crowley would always be glad to be past the 14th century. Human civilization was still dirty and bleak, but it was  _ so _ much better than it had been. No more damp skin in medieval armor, no more plague, and, most excitingly, an Arrangement with Aziraphale. 

_ But if hell finds out _ , Aziraphale had worriedly pointed out,  _ they won’t just be angry, they’ll destroy you _ . He was right, of course. Crowley was fully aware of how dangerously they would be living under their Arrangement. But he had convinced the angel, not by contradicting the obvious truth of his statement, but by trying to put his mind at ease.

_ Nobody ever has to know _ . About the Arrangement, about...well, about whatever the angel wanted, really. It’s not like Crowley had anybody he could tell, anyways. He had no friend in the world except Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who was stood beside him, eating grapes and smiling up at the stage where Hamlet’s finer details were being worked out. 

Really, Crowley thought, the wonderful things humanity devised from the renaissance onward did Aziraphale a world of good. Surely the angel must’ve been the muse for some of the finest artistic masterpieces of that era, and Crowley knew firsthand how happily he had indulged in its welcome luxuries. A handful of grapes and a warm smile and Aziraphale’s soft form put Crowley entirely at ease.

“ _ C’mon _ angel,” Crowley prompted, excitement tightening his muscles and making him want to bounce up on his toes. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him in silent question, though not quite annoyed. At least he seemed glad to see Crowley. That was always good.

“Let’s have lunch,” he suggested, pacing over to Aziraphale’s left side and leaning towards him conspiratorially. Aziraphale gave a sympathetic frown as he shook his head slightly. Crowley’s heart dropped into his stomach. Probably not literally, but then again, these human corporations did all sorts of strange things.

“Oh dear, I really do need to be getting some things done this afternoon, blessings and whatnot,” he said, and Crowley rolled his eyes, pouting dramatically to cover up his genuine displeasure. Of course, heavenly business should take precedence over fraternizing with the enemy. He couldn’t blame the angel for it, especially not since he’d just agreed to perform demonic work in Edinburgh.

“Don’t give me that look,” Aziraphale laughed softly, shaking his head at the demon. He was smiling, and Crowley couldn’t find it in him to be too upset, not with the angel looking at him like  _ that _ , with such softness. “How about dinner instead?”

Relief washed over Crowley. “Dinner!  _ Yes _ , good, dinner’s great. Love dinner, me,” he said, like an idiot. He fought to keep the goofy grin away from his lips, and did not entirely succeed.

“Fabulous, oh I have the perfect idea!” Aziraphale replied, looking properly excited himself.

That perfect idea, it turned out, was snacking and drinking while watching a play. Not exactly Crowley’s idea of a perfect evening, but really, anything was perfect with Aziraphale’s company.

They sat together in the sparsely populated third level of seating in the Globe Theater, watching some play or other (it wasn’t terribly funny, so Crowley didn’t bother remembering the name). Aziraphale had pouted and tried to convince Crowley that  _ really, dear, we can see so much better from here _ , in the yard, but Crowley insisted they sit somewhere they could talk, and the angel relented.

Grapes in two forms—fresh, and pressed into wine—were shared between them, in copious amounts, and by the time the play actually started they were both rather sloshed. 

As the play went on, their conversation became more sparse.

“I want to see what happens!” Aziraphale had insisted in a not-quite-whisper. Crowley just rolled his eyes and slouched further into his seat, humoring the angel, who he was pretty sure had already seen this particular play at least once.

If asked about what happened next, Crowley would tell anyone that it was boredom from the play that made him rest his eyes for a moment. In reality, however, he would admit only to himself that it was in fact Aziraphale’s presence that relaxed him enough to fall asleep.

Aziraphale noticed about halfway into the play that Crowley was touching his shoulder, lightly at first, then heavier after a moment, enough to get his attention and make him look over to see what the demon wanted. And,  _ oh _ .

It was Crowley’s head resting on his shoulder. Aziraphale’s slight movement caused Crowley’s (frankly ridiculous) red hair to tickle against his neck, but in a surprisingly pleasant way. He was suddenly glad he’d removed his ruffled collar earlier in the evening. He gazed down at his—acquaintance? Friend?—supernatural counterpart, and his vantage point allowed him to view beneath the demon’s glasses, eyes shut tight to the world around them. 

Crowley was  _ asleep _ . With his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He felt as though he might discorporate on the spot.

Some vague sense of deja vu swam in his mind at the sensation of Crowley against him—slender limbs and the scent of cloves, fitting into his side pleasantly, easily. Aziraphale couldn’t quite place the feeling, but he was loath to disturb the uncommon sense of peace which had overcome Crowley’s features. He supposed it wouldn’t do them any harm to let Crowley sleep for a while.

Some noise, though somehow not the applause for the play’s finale, roused Crowley. He sniffed, lifting his head blearily and looked around in confusion. The play was over? The theater was almost entirely empty, and he was left feeling disoriented. Had he fallen asleep?

_ Hang on _ . Aziraphale was sat beside him primly as ever, but a soft look in his eyes was directed at Crowley. 

“Did I-” he started, speech mildly slurred more from sleep than alcohol.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Aziraphale said quickly, in a tone reminiscent of the one he’d used while admitting to giving away his flaming sword.

Crowley felt heat prickling up the sides of his neck and flushing his cheeks with embarrassment. So he had fallen asleep leaning against the angel. But the play must’ve ended at least half an hour before he’d woken up, so he must’ve been in that state for hours. 

Why had Aziraphale just sat there for so long, until he woke up on his own? How long would he have sat there if Crowley hadn’t woken up when he did?

“Well!” He said, standing up quickly as his head swam, “Best be going, eh? Lots of evil to be done,” he said with forced nonchalance. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in Aziraphale’s arms and get a proper night’s rest. But he wasn’t foolish enough to entertain the thought.

“Really, now,” Aziraphale huffed, standing up and following after him. Crowley watched him over his shoulder as the angel caught up and fell into step with him. “We hardly got through any conversation at all,” he admonished lightly, the words,  _ before you fell asleep _ , being left unsaid.

“Another temptation, angel?” He asked in his characteristically cocky manner, hoping the angel wouldn’t see right through his facade.

“Call it what you will, you serpent. Humor me,” Aziraphale teased gently, and Crowley supposed he could manage that.

The pair ended up going for a walk, as Crowley didn’t trust himself to be truly alone with the angel, in either of their living quarters, even though Aziraphale offered him more drinks back at his.

Ultimately unsatisfied, but in a somewhat better mood after spending time together, Crowley parted ways with the angel, longing for a place to rest his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**France, 1793**

Aziraphale, the swank bastard, just couldn’t resist popping across the channel for some crepes, nearly getting his head chopped off in the process. Crowley suspected the angel was doing it for attention— _Crowley’s_ attention, dear lord Somebody save him. 

As much as Crowley admonished Aziraphale for his fashion sense, he secretly loved it. The ruffles and expensive fabrics and posh cuts absolutely suited him. Another sign of indulgence, evidence of the angel’s love for the finery of human invention.

They sat at a small round table, not quite across from one another—closer than that—Aziraphale wearing Jean-Claude the executioner’s clothes, their dark colors doing strange things to Crowley’s heart, and sharing a plate of crepes between them. 

Well, _sharing_ is a generous term for what they were doing. Really, Aziraphale had insisted they share, and set the plate between them, though Crowley had only taken one bite, so Aziraphale had to lean in for each of his own. Crowley certainly didn’t mind the view, nor the slow pace with which the angel ate.

He found himself smiling at the angel over his petit noir, his taste for coffee having been developed centuries ago, and its spread to Europe for which he was both very glad and partially responsible.

The only thing on his mind, though, was the angel intermittently leaning towards him, taking bites, and leaning back in evident satisfaction with each; the softness of him, the warmth of his presence. Crowley was smitten, not by angelic wrath, but by angelic beauty.

They parted ways much too soon for his liking, but he knew it was for the best—hell might take a peek at what they believed was Crowley’s work, and they couldn’t risk being caught. _It’s for the best._

Crowley’s muscles ached with restlessness, and thus began the demon’s pilgrimage to find the softest bed in all of France.

He made his way west from the Bastille, through Paris, but the noise of the city and the commotion from all the head-severing was rather unpleasant, and none of the available rooms were quite good enough to make up for it. 

By dusk, he found himself having crossed the Seine twice, looping through the neighborhoods, and eventually nearing Versailles. Swaggering through the streets with barely-concealed desperation, he eventually came across an empty estate, whose previous tenants’ fate he refused to contemplate. Much furniture was missing, but an upper-floor bedroom remained relatively untouched. 

The bed looked magnificent. A four-poster decked out in cream and gold, fine carvings in the headboard and footboard, fleur de lis embroidered on the duvet in crimson silk thread, tassel linings and ruffled bedskirts, all terribly inviting.

He kicked off his shoes as he crossed the room in a few strides, and flung himself onto the bed, immediately sinking into the mattress. A flick of his wrist caused a miracle to seal the doors and draw the heavy canopy closed to plunge him into muted darkness. Surrounded by the light colors, soft blankets, and downy feather pillows, it was almost enough to fill the aching Aziraphale-shaped void in his heart.

**London, 1862**

Crowley had woken up in Versailles feeling rather wonderfully refreshed. A spring in his step and ready to cause trouble.

Things only got worse.

He had only asked for the holy water as insurance, since he meant to spend more time with Aziraphale now that they had further settled into their Arrangement. Clearly he had been mistaken.

“I'm not an idiot, Crowley,” he snapped, “Do you know what trouble I'd be in if...if they knew I'd been fraternizing?” He asked as if it was something horrific to be accused of. “It's completely out of the question.”

“ _Fraternizing_?” Crowley snarled, too angry to be grateful for the glasses obscuring the genuine hurt in his eyes.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale sighed, as if Crowley was the one being ridiculous here. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further,” he finished.

“I have lots of other people to _fraternize_ with, angel.”

“Of course you do,” he said, the hint of sarcasm in his tone not going unnoticed by the demon.

“I don't need you,” Crowley said, punctuating with a sweeping gesture, wishing he could put more venom into his words, but feeling terribly reminiscent of a lead balloon. 

Aziraphale, beginning to stomp away, paused in his steps to look back over his shoulder and get the last word in. “Well, and the feeling is _mutual_ ,” he snapped, “obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Crowley mocked bitterly to himself once the angel was out of earshot.

The paper burned as it lay on the pond’s surface.

 _Fraternizing_ . Sure, their trysts for the past millennium involved a fair degree of fraternization, but _really_. Consorting with the enemy. Was that all Aziraphale thought of their relationship?

 _We may have both started off as angels, but you_ , he’d pointed out tartly, _are fallen_. He’d wielded the words like a flaming sword, cutting exactly where he knew it’d hurt most. Aziraphale thought so little of him.

A worse thought crossed Crowley’s mind as he stalked out of St. James’s Park. Aziraphale not only denied their friendship, but in doing so he also revealed just how little he cared for Crowley’s existence.

 _He doesn’t care if they get me_ , he thought angrily, miserably. Aziraphale wouldn’t give him the means of protecting himself. Aziraphale clearly didn’t give a damn about his wellbeing.

He’d called it a suicide pill. As if Crowley would do something like that. Aziraphale knew better; this was just some stupid excuse.

It hurt like hell.

Aziraphale seemed more upset by the fact that Crowley had had the _audacity_ to think of them as friends. He had been such a fool. He should’ve known better.

 _And what does your friend think?_ Aziraphale had been asked in the Globe, two and a half centuries earlier.

 _Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other_ , Aziraphale had hurriedly explained.

 _I think you should get on with the play_ , Crowley had said, writing off the angel’s words as a nervous reaction, when he really should’ve known better.

His feet carried him to his home in Mayfair of their own accord, and he slammed his way through the door and threw himself down face-first into bed so violently it hurt. His mattress was soft, his pillows were fluffed, and his sheets were of the finest silks money could buy. He gripped the top edge of the blanket and threw it over his head, yelling his frustration into the pillow.

He was determined to sleep for as long as possible, for as long as it took for it to stop hurting. Centuries, probably.

He couldn’t sleep.


	5. A Chance at Reconciliation

Despite the bed being, objectively, incredibly lush, Crowley couldn’t get comfortable. He tossed and turned, punched at the pillows and kicked at the sheets, but to no avail. His muscles were stiff and tight, his joints ached, and he had a throbbing headache behind his eyes.

His throat felt tight but he’d already screamed himself hoarse. His mind was begging him to cry, but his body steadfastly refused. His eyes burned and he could barely breathe around the lump in his throat, yet no tears would come.

He felt pathetic.

A demon, thrown into despair because an angel didn’t care about him. Oh, he must be the biggest fool in the universe. A cosmic joke.

He fell in and out of restless sleep, managing only a few hours over the next several decades, but refused to get out of bed for anything.

**London, 1941**

Not even the rising tide of evil flooding through London got him to disentangle himself from the sheets.

That is, until he felt Aziraphale’s presence nearby, passing with decent regularity. If Aziraphale was there, in London, in the midst of whatever horrors he could feel happening outside, then something must be very wrong indeed. 

That feeling was enough to motivate him to find out what was going on, from the comfort of his bedroom, that is. And Crowley, for all his demonic wiles, was disgusted by the state of affairs humanity had gotten itself into.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself into the world Out There, and got down to business. After all, he had a lot of evil to take credit for. 

He supposed he had given his heart enough time to pretend to be healed. 

Of course Aziraphale had to get himself tangled up with the Nazis. The angel was far too trusting for his own good. As he hopped through the church, feet burning and wings aching where they were hidden away, he was reminded of the lengths he was willing to go to for Aziraphale. He was a fool. _A noble, heroic, incredibly handsome fool_ , he convinced himself.

“Oh, the books! I forgot all about the books,” Aziraphale cried as the pair stood in the rubble of the former church.

Crowley just rolled his eyes and plucked the bag from the dead man’s hand. Aziraphale may have forgotten about them, but Crowley had not. Of course he hadn’t.

Aziraphale looked at him as if Crowley was handing him the moon, instead of a bag of books. Surprised, touched, and perhaps something else, though it wasn’t anything he could identify.

Their fingers brushed on the bag’s handle. Crowley felt goosebumps run up his arm from where they had touched, over his shoulders and down his spine, leaving a tingling sense of warmth in their wake.

Ignoring the urge to linger, he sauntered off ahead of the angel, not allowing himself to look back as he offered Aziraphale a lift home. He couldn’t bring himself to check if he was being followed to the Bentley; it would break what was left of his heart if he wasn’t, and if he was, then, well...he wanted to look cool. He had _some_ ego left, after all.

He also didn’t think his feet would be able to hold him up for any longer than it took to quickly walk to the car. They hurt like hell. Well, _heaven_ , actually.

Crowley slid into the driver’s seat, hissing quietly in relief at his weight being taken off his throbbing feet. He glanced to his left just as the passenger door opened, and his heart did a somersault into his stomach as Aziraphale slid into the seat beside him, shut the door, and sat perfectly upright with the bag in his lap.

 _At least we’re still_ ...Crowley thought as he started the engine, _still what?_ Not friends, Aziraphale had made that clear enough, but they were still on speaking terms. Aziraphale couldn’t hate him too much if he was letting Crowley drive him home.

That being said, Crowley didn’t, strictly speaking, know how to drive. But he didn’t let that stop him. He’d been driving the Bentley enough to get a feel for it before giving Aziraphale a lift, though. He liked to drive. The angel, however, had never much enjoyed being a passenger, even in the days before the advent of the horseless carriage. 

The aching tenderness of Crowley’s feet prevented him from driving in the way he’d taken a liking to—fast and loose—and the rubble in the streets forced him to steer carefully. Still, though, he could tell it was not quite Aziraphale’s cup of tea.

They rode in silence, the air thick and charged like they were on the very edge of something, something limitless and unknown. Ineffable, even.

A muscle in Crowley’s jaw twitched under the strain of how hard he was gritting his teeth, through the pain in his feet and the writhing mass of emotions in the pit of his stomach. If he kept his jaw sealed shut, he wouldn’t say anything stupid.

 _Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt_. Something like that, anyways. He couldn’t remember who said that one, but it wasn’t whoever people had given the credit to.

He could feel the angel’s eyes on him intermittently as he drove, but forced himself to stare straight through the windshield at the road ahead of them. He didn’t want to see the expression with which Aziraphale was watching him; whatever it was, it wouldn’t make him feel better.

They pulled up outside the bookshop, looking dark and unfamiliarly gloomy, but significantly undamaged by the war around it. He cut the engine, opened his door and swung his legs out, immediately wincing from the pain of standing. Damn his manners for making him get up to see Aziraphale off.

He leaned on the Bentley for support, in a way that was meant to look casual, and watched Aziraphale get out of the passenger side.

“Well,” Crowley said after Aziraphale shut his door, “I’ll be off, then. ‘Til next time, angel.”

Aziraphale hesitated; his eyes seemed to be searching Crowley, whose feet felt like they were being eaten alive by the pavement where he stood in the car’s open doorway, but remained planted firmly in place, determined not to show the angel any sign of weakness.

“Won’t you come in? I’ve some wine stashed away that ought to be quite good by now,” Aziraphale finally spoke up, and his voice was soft, and Crowley could almost believe he really wanted his company.

Crowley could never say no to the angel, and as much as he desperately wished to run away and hide, he nodded, and followed Aziraphale gingerly into the bookshop.

As he crossed the threshold, Aziraphale subtly rearranged his furniture with a quick miracle, to afford Crowley a place to sit without having to walk too far. He’d seen how much pain the demon was in, and he had also seen how thoroughly he’d been trying to hide it. Aziraphale didn’t want to call Crowley out by bringing attention to it, but he must’ve been in an awful lot of pain.

 _Consecrated ground, for heaven’s sake_ , Aziraphale thought, both horrified and a little impressed. _He did it for me_ , he thought then, something miserably sick making his insides twist. Aziraphale’s heart had swelled when Crowley had saved the books (and his life). Even after all these years apart, he’d come back right when Aziraphale had needed him. The depths of the demon’s devotion to him had been further revealed, that night, and Aziraphale, in spite of himself, was happy. 

But mostly, he was terrified.

Crowley had, through his little stunt, put himself into potentially mortal danger—walking on consecrated ground, mere meters away from fontfulls of holy water. It was a real miracle none of it splashed on him when the building came down. All that just to save Aziraphale from being discorporated.

His heart ached and he let it show on his face as he retrieved the wine; no one but God could see him then. He collected himself as he made his way back to where Crowley was sat, stretched out languidly on the chaise, feet propped up on the coffee table. He’d taken his hat off, at least, like a gentleman.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale puffed, setting down the glasses and moving to pour for them both.

Crowley hummed a noise of thanks as he took the proffered glass off the table as Aziraphale set about pouring his own. “I really can’t stay long though, angel, got stuff to do,” he said from behind the glass’s rim, then took a sip.

“At least let me take a look at your injuries before you leave,” Aziraphale said quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

“What makes you think I’m injured? I’m perfectly alright,” Crowley replied, unconvincingly.

“The soles of your shoes have melted off, dear,” Aziraphale pointed out, nodding to the table where he could see through to the bottoms of Crowley’s blistered feet through his black leather loafers.

 _Dear_. Aziraphale had always been fond of that particular endearment. 

Crowley hurriedly moved his feet back to the floor, but remained seated. “S’ fine. Forget it,” he muttered, and Aziraphale thought he saw a slight ripple in reality that would suggest a new pair of demonic loafers had been brought into existence.

Aziraphale decided not to press the issue. He wasn’t trying to encourage this sort of behavior, after all. At least that’s what he told himself.

They sat quietly for a few moments, sipping wine in vaguely uncomfortable silence.

Crowley’s feet ached, but he couldn’t let Aziraphale tend to them. He’d have to be crazy to let the angel do that. Well, crazier than he clearly already had shown himself to be when it came to Aziraphale.

He tried to keep his distance, not cross any lines as they sat with their drinks. Their relationship, in whatever form it had taken, was in a fragile state, and Crowley knew it was most likely he who would cause it to break. _That’s something demons are good at, breaking things. Ruining things. Making everything worse._

 _Shut up_ , he told himself sternly. He was not gonna get all philosophical, it was absolutely not the time for that.

Crowley kept his distance, because he didn’t want his own feelings to get hurt any more. And because he respected Aziraphale, and if he didn’t want them to be close, then so be it.

“Bookshop’s stayed intact,” Crowley noted, saying it into the air around them, rather than to Aziraphale directly. He wasn’t going to force a conversation, but he’d be willing to have one.

“Yes, it has,” Aziraphale said, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Crowley backed off, letting silence fall between them once again.

“So,” Aziraphale started a moment later, drawing Crowley’s attention to look over at him properly, “what’ve you been up to lately, if not all this?” He asked with a small wave of his free hand, referencing the war, presumably.

“Oh, you know…” Crowley hesitated. He briefly considered making something up, but he never liked to lie to the angel. “Not much, actually,” he admitted.

“Well, at least you’ve plenty to take credit for. Probably get a commendation,” Aziraphale murmured, no real bite behind the words. He looked tired.

Crowley watched him for a moment, allowed himself to really _look_ for the first time that night. The angel looked like hell. He was as put-together as always in terms of his clothing, and his hair was in its timeless short, curly style, but the rest of him didn’t suit it like usual. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the blue of his irises seemed more dull than usual, like the ocean when a cloud covers the sun. Something else was different, too, something in the line of his shoulders, the way he twisted the ring around his pinky finger like he’d always done.

“This one’s bad, huh, this war?” He asked quietly. It wasn’t really a question.

Aziraphale nodded. “Terrible, what they’re going through. All of it,” he murmured into his glass, eyes seemingly staring into the void, fixed on the floor several meters in front of him.

Crowley probably shouldn’t’ve brought it up. Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about what was going on around them. But he was sure neither of them wanted to talk about what had happened when last they met, so what else was there to talk about, really?

Crowley sighed. He wouldn’t push the angel. He wouldn’t remind him that he didn’t have to obey the human rules, that he could pop into America or someplace else, to get his mind off things. He wouldn’t bring any of it up. But he hated to see Aziraphale like this. 

He left not long after that, the pair not even finishing one bottle between them. Crowley limped his way back to the Bentley and drove home slowly, lost in thought.

He eventually made it into bed, and wrapped his feet up carefully, hoping they would heal soon. Blasted holy injuries took their sweet time.

Before long, though, Crowley fell asleep, lulled by the new memory of Aziraphale’s fingers brushing against his own, on the bag’s leather handle as the books had passed between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more chapters coming soon...


	6. Chapter 6

**London Soho, 1967**

By now, Crowley’s relationship with the Bentley had become properly intimate. It was his safe space, in a way that his flat could never be. It gave him the freedom to travel on his own, to make a quick getaway, and have a little slice of privacy in the midst of humanity.

He planned on sitting inside it for a while after he’d arranged his heist operation, surrounded by the lights and noise of Soho, but separated from it, more or less hidden, to collect his thoughts.

Aziraphale was in the Bentley.

He hadn’t been there when Crowley had first opened the door; he’d appeared between then and when Crowley sat down. He’d purposely made a dramatic entrance, the demon imagined.

Aziraphale had, of course, ridden in the Bentley before, 26 years earlier. This was different, though, and they could both feel it. 

He handed Crowley a tartan thermos, whose contents were promised to be the holiest of holy waters.

“I can’t have you risking your life,” he’d said matter-of-factly, handing it over. Their fingers did not touch as it passed between their hands.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked, feeling a tugging sensation in his chest at this genuine display of...kindness, and growth, from the angel. Crowley couldn’t remember a time he’d ever said thank you to Aziraphale, but the pair both knew he had other indirect ways of expressing his gratitude.

“Better not,” Aziraphale said, his words coming out in a tense tone. He looked like he was searching for an escape route.

Crowley was desperate to make the moment last. Aziraphale’s gesture was meaningful, and Crowley meant to stretch it as far as it would go. He hadn’t mentioned the holy water insurance to Aziraphale (or anyone, really) in 105 years. He hadn’t planned on bringing it up ever again, because of how disastrously it had gone the first time round. The demon was, genuinely, touched.

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?” He asked, leaning back against his seat and looking over at the angel in a way that was meant to be more relaxed than cocky, to show that he did genuinely appreciate what Aziraphale had done.

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale said, shifting in his seat like he was waiting for the polite moment to take his leave. Crowley, understandably, was crushed.

He would always be willing to share his space in the Bentley with Aziraphale. It felt entirely too personal to share it with anyone else, really, but the angel would always be welcome. But of course he didn’t want to spend much time with Crowley, in close quarters as they were.

He’d given him holy water—Crowley supposed that was the only concession Aziraphale was willing to make, and he couldn’t blame him for it. That was a lot for the angel. As much as Crowley wanted to be hurt, he understood. It was more than he had hoped for, and it would have to be enough.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale huffed, shaking his head lightly at the demon, no real annoyance in his voice. Crowley felt a pang in his stomach, a rush of anxiety at the realization that he must’ve let his feelings be written on his face. It was humiliating to feel so seen. But Aziraphale wasn’t making fun of him.

“Perhaps one day we could...I don't know,” he began, eyes searching the empty air around them for ideas, and apparently finding them. “Go for a picnic,” he suggested, “dine at the Ritz.” The clandestine domesticity of it was not lost on Crowley. Just as secretive as they’d always been, but more...intimate, somehow.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” he pleaded, having given up on hiding his desperation, ego be damned.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

That was it, then. He supposed it was enough, although it hurt to see him go.

Crowley started the engine and decided to go for a drive, taking the long way back to Mayfair (and circling most of London in the process). The 8-track he’d installed into the Bentley’s radio system played some jazz he’d heard in the 1940s as he got lost in thought.

_Go for a picnic, dine at the Ritz._ That’s what he had suggested they do together, someday. Crowley was desperate for it.

The angel looked better than he had when they’d last met. Back to normal, almost. To anyone else, Crowley imagined, the difference would’ve been nearly imperceptible, but not to him; he knew Aziraphale too well. Knew the soft lines of him, the curve of his smile, the line of his shoulders in his coat, the fit of his vest, his ring. Crowley knew every detail of him, had committed them to memory over the years in a silent worship of God’s finest creation.

Crowley’s muscles were tense, his skin felt numb. _Touch-starved_ , the humans called it. It was more than that, though, he knew that beyond his corporation’s biologically-hardwired craving for human (or human-presenting) touch, he ached for Aziraphale’s companionship, in any form it would take. He would take anything. He was desperate for the angel, mind, body, and soul.

His bed was cold, and he couldn’t sleep that night.


	7. The Beginning of The End

**Circa 2008**

The antichrist had been delivered. Crowley had transported it, seen its face. He wished he hadn’t seen its face. He didn’t want to think of this horrible world-ending monster as an infant, swaddled in blankets—small, helpless. It was just a baby. It would grow up, have a life, memories, friends, hobbies, favorite foods, a favorite color. By the time the end would come, it would be a person. He didn’t want to think about it being a person.

Of course, he called Aziraphale immediately.

They only had eleven years left. Six millennia gone in the blink of an eye.

In the end, either heaven or hell would win, and the other would be no more. Crowley couldn’t bear the thought. Either he would see Aziraphale die, or Aziraphale would see him die. The reality of it made him sick.

Drunk and in the bookshop, the weight of their situation weighing heavily on their shoulders, they allowed themselves to relax more than they had in a long time. Desperation of the nearing end brought them together without room to worry about anything else.

Crowley was rambling, slurring vague nonsense about something (dolphins?). He’d stood up at one point, though he couldn’t remember why.

But,  _ oh _ , Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair, looking absolutely  _ exquisite _ . Lit by the low, warm lamplight, blurry around the edges, looking soft and warm and inviting. He couldn’t resist.

Wobbly legs carried Crowley to the angel’s side and he perched himself on the arm of the chair, so close that his hip pressed against Aziraphale’s arm. He leaned back, sprawling inelegantly, and draped his arm around the back of the chair, and around Aziraphale’s shoulders by extension. Their only point of connection, though, was where the demon’s hip was lightly touching the angel’s upper arm.

His head was swimming with their proximity (and the alcohol). Tingling warmth spread from the point of contact, and made him nearly desperate with the desire to crawl into Aziraphale’s lap and curl up in his arms. He was positively  _ yearning _ for it. 

Crowley did a lot more yearning over the years than he would like to admit.

Aziraphale was looking up at him, blue eyes swimming in a way that made Crowley’s head spin—it was something about the lighting, something about the alcohol, but his eyes looked the same as they had that night in Rome. Nearly two millennia ago, the memory resurfaced as if no time at all had passed.

Aziraphale was looking at him, and Crowley couldn’t remember what he’d been talking about. Although, he suspected Aziraphale hadn’t really been listening.

_ Why’s he looking at me like that? _ He wondered. Aziraphale was  _ gazing _ up at him. Neither of them saying anything, just looking at each other. 

Oh, Satan, he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

Panic rose in his chest and shot painfully down his limbs, freezing him for only a moment before he was spurred into action. 

He hopped up and tried to casually stroll over to one of the book shelves, managing to stay upright long enough to get there and slump against it. He hoped the wobble in his knees could be attributed to drunken stumbling. He changed the subject, playing it off as another one of his usual eccentricities.

They sobered up before long, and Crowley went home. He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to waste a single moment of the last eleven years they’d have.

.

Five years later, five years of their usual song and dance, it was time to come up with a plan for Armageddon.

They sat in a busy cafe in central London, surrounded by noisy tourists and weren’t paid the slightest bit of attention. Crowley had an overpriced espresso, and Aziraphale was picking at a chocolate croissant. He’d gotten about halfway into it with his usual delight before Crowley spoke up and turned the conversation serious. Aziraphale had set the pastry down and only touched it a few times while they talked.

“The child’s old enough now to be receptive to our influences?” Aziraphale asked, as if that wasn’t exactly what Crowley had just told him.

“Yep,” Crowley said, in that casually dramatic way of his. “They’ll need a nanny,” he added, since that had been his first thought on the issue. Young child, big house, lots of money, a nanny would be the next logical thing. And it would be the perfect place to exert influence over the child. Aziraphale nodded.

“I suppose governesses have rather gone out of fashion for a household of their size, haven’t they...I’ll have to take a different job then, what do you think?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley was caught off-guard less by his entirely serious use of the word  _ governess, _ and mostly by the fact that he assumed  _ Crowley _ would be the nanny. He’d mentioned a nanny first as a way of offering the position to Aziraphale (since he always put Aziraphale first), but clearly it had not come across that way to the angel.

“They’re advertising for a gardener,” Crowley said, hoping that now Aziraphale would take his point. It’d be the logical jobs for them—nanny for the sweet, caring angel, and gardener for the snake who mastered horticulture in the 1970s.

“Oh, that’ll be perfect! I’ve been meaning to read up on gardening, now I’ll get a chance to put what I learn into practice!” Aziraphale said. And God or Somebody damn it, he’d missed the point so completely and yet Crowley couldn’t bring himself to crush the angel’s excitement. There’d be pouting, and arguing, and he would’ve let Aziraphale win anyways, so why bother. Let him have it. (The gardener job, that is.)

Aziraphale, excited with their new plan, munched happily on the rest of his croissant and brainstormed aloud how they should disguise themselves. He wanted to wear costumes. To raise the Antichrist.

_ This might not be too bad after all _ , Crowley thought. 

That is, until he saw the disguise Aziraphale chose. Brother Francis was a total caricature, and Aziraphale was clearly having loads of fun. So much for Crowley’s hopes for a romantic subplot between the mysterious, sexy nanny and the sweet, clueless gardener.

He hadn’t really gotten his hopes up, of course, but he did choose his disguise to be particularly and intimidatingly attractive.

They didn’t see as much of each other during their time with the Dowlings as Crowley would’ve liked, but it was still good, somehow. It was ok. They’d take walks in the garden, see each other occasionally at parties and events on the property, and spent many of their days off together. Having lunch, going to the theater, sitting around the bookshop. It was nice. It was enough.

As Warlock’s eleventh birthday approached, Crowley had begged Aziraphale not to do a magic show. But Aziraphale hadn’t listened, nor had he practiced much, it seemed, if the birthday disaster was anything to go by. Really though, young, spoiled children had impossible tempers, and even the coolest magic show on Earth would’ve gotten booed off stage.

To Aziraphale, though, the factors which hindered his performance were more multifaceted. Crowley, stood in front of tables full of pastries and cakes and trifles, was wearing a white tuxedo, and looking positively  _ dashing _ . There was something about the way the demon’s hair stood out against the white of his jacket, the stark contrast to the color scheme he’d stuck to for the entirety of his existence on Earth…

They made their exit during the food fight that was lifting the children’s spirits. Crowley discarded his jacket, dropping it on the ground on the way to the Bentley.

“It was all a bit of a mess, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, sounding terribly disappointed.

“You gave them all a party to remember,” Crowley denied, because it was true, technically, and he couldn’t bear to see the angel get down on himself. But they had to remember what day it was. “Last one they’ll ever have, mind…” he added gloomily.

Realizing they had the wrong boy all those years felt like a devastating and fatal blow to them both.  _ This is it, then _ , Crowley thought.

They went to the bookshop and got horribly drunk.

They sat together inside, bottles littering every available surface around them. They were leaning—slumped, really—with their backs against a bookshelf, sitting on an antique rug on the floor, the furniture all but forgotten, only a place to toss empty bottles.

For the state of drunkenness they were in, their conversation was uncharacteristically melancholy, and for good reason. They’d raised the wrong boy, and the real Antichrist was out there somewhere, probably naming the hellhound and setting things in motion for the end of days.

Their conversation slowed after a while, when they could no longer form any coherent thoughts nor properly move their mouths to speak. 

Sitting side-by-side, Crowley let his head fall against Aziraphale’s shoulder, as he no longer had the strength to hold it up.

Aziraphale leaned into the motion and pressed his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head, eliciting a lopsided smile from him.

As tired as they were, neither of them slept, not wanting to waste what little time they had left. That was Crowley’s reasoning, anyways.

After a while, by the time the night sky had taken on a hue meaning they were nearer to sunrise than sunset, Crowley shifted slightly, slipping his hand into Aziraphale’s where it lay against the angel’s thigh, and intertwined their fingers. Maybe he was wrong, but he thought he felt Aziraphale tense beside him. He wasn’t wrong.

He left the bookshop before the sun made it over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading so far! I'm thinking there'll be 3 more chapters after this one, but we'll see, since I haven't actually written them yet.
> 
> thanks again for the kudos and comments! :-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little something from Aziraphale's POV

Aziraphale felt conflicted, which seemed to be his natural state. There was always something or other to worry about, to simultaneously be happy about, always something, something, something. That something quite often happened to be Crowley; his friend, his near-constant companion for all their time on Earth. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with him. Crowley was simultaneously the most obvious and most mysterious of God’s creations. 

When he would look at Aziraphale, gazing at him with such blatant adoration, over a mug of coffee or a glass of wine, or even just the rim of his glasses, it was like he was declaring his affection for all the world to hear. 

Other times, Crowley was impossible to read, impossible to understand. Every time Aziraphale sought to bring them closer together, to show how much he cared for the demon, Crowley practically (and, on a few occasions, literally) drew away from him, or fled entirely. 

In Rome, Aziraphale had woken up—his first time ever doing so, as it had been his first time falling asleep—alone, when he was certain Crowley had been there at the time of his losing consciousness. They had been drinking together. They’d been having fun. He’d thought so, anyways.

Crowley must’ve left in a hurry though, Aziraphale recalled, as he’d left his glasses behind, carelessly laying on the dirt floor. Must’ve wanted to get away from the angel as quickly as possible, he’d assumed, since Crowley never went anywhere without his newest accessory.

But then he’d been so eager to set up their Arrangement that Aziraphale had all but forgotten that night in the backroom of the inn. (Well...that and the fact that he had been completely blackout drunk...) 

And then Crowley had watched Aziraphale so intently across the table in Paris, after rescuing him from the Bastille. And yet, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, he had refused to share their crepes. To share in the moment with Aziraphale. Looking at him was one thing, but the angel wanted more.

Maybe Crowley was only...fascinated with the concept of him, and spent time with him to satisfy his curiosity and desire for knowledge, rather than out of a real sense of friendship and...and personal attachment.

But then he’d go and do something like he’d done in the 1940s—marching into a church to save Aziraphale, and remembering to save the books when even the angel himself had forgotten—and it’d be impossible to believe that Crowley didn’t care for him. But, then again, when Aziraphale sought to bring them closer, to care for him and his injuries, which had only been inflicted because of him, Crowley had drawn away yet again. He couldn’t understand it. Was it shame? Disgust? Or maybe some misguided and instinctual sense of self-preservation that kept the demon from letting the angel too far in. Maybe some combination of things.

Maybe he’d still been hurting from their fight. They hadn’t seen each other since then, at that point. Aziraphale was certainly still recovering from it back then, and wasn’t sure he had fully recovered even by the present day. Maybe Crowley had just been angry with him, and that was the reason. Still, it never quite made sense.

Aziraphale realized he was in love with Crowley that night, in 1941. He’d been in love with the demon for a long time before then, but was only able to realize it while standing under the stars in the rubble of the church. He didn’t know quite what it was that triggered it, but the feeling had swelled inside him like an orchestral overture the moment Crowley had handed him the books. It had taken his breath away so thoroughly he’d been stuck, rooted to the spot; he’d felt on the verge of discorporation, but in the most wonderful way.

Maybe it was the realization that his feelings could be reciprocated, that there was another being on Earth who not only thought of him, but thought to do something kind for him. That Crowley really cared. The grand gesture—prancing over consecrated ground and getting him out of a scrape—was all well and good, but it was the thought spared to the books that, at the risk of sounding cliche, made his heart sing. Crowley had saved the books automatically, because he knew Aziraphale would want them saved. He’d given them to him as if it were obvious, as if it were natural, no big deal. Ordinary.

And it  _ was _ . That was the thing. Crowley always spared thought to the things Aziraphale cared about. He knew where to find his favorite pastries, he knew which restaurant he preferred to get sushi from, he knew how he took his tea, knew his favorite flowers, which books he prized the most, and which books he was searching for. Crowley really  _ knew _ Aziraphale, because he bothered to pay attention.

Crowley had always been there, listened to him, cared for him, when no one else would. When no one else  _ could _ .

And that terrified him.

Now more than ever, with Armageddon looming on the horizon, the prospect of their imminent call to arms was a cold dagger in his stomach, reminding him once again that they were meant to be on opposite sides. If there was a war, which was looking more and more likely, this would be the end for them. They both knew it.

He was conflicted. More than he’d been when they’d first met in Eden—the snake had slithered up the wall beside him and transformed into the demon he’d come to know, and as much as Aziraphale should have been conflicted then, he wasn’t. Not about Crawly, anyways. He’d been thoroughly conflicted over giving away his flaming sword, but he’d had no doubts about Crawly. Now, however, they’d spent 6,000 years bending the rules and growing into their friendship, and Aziraphale was loath to abandon what they had together. He was desperate to stay with Crowley, to love him, forever and ever, consequences be damned. But it wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t ignore the consequences. The fate of the Earth, and humanity, and the execution of the Great Plan were all at stake, not just the relationship between an errant principality and a benevolent demon. It was all too much.

He’d let Crowley take his hand, as they sat together that night in the bookshop. Leaning together, Crowley’s head on his shoulder, his cheek against Crowley’s hair, that was one thing, but holding hands was something altogether different. More intimate, somehow. He wasn’t sure why. He’d wanted it, desperately craved any and all touch from the demon, but his mind was spiralling through worst-case scenarios at the speed of light and their fingers being interlaced brought it to a screeching halt somewhere between joy and panic.

He let their hands remain together, because he wanted to hold Crowley’s hand. But it made him terribly afraid. Crowley had left the bookshop not long after that, disentangling himself from their half-embrace inelegantly, muttering something about sobering up, and made his exit. Aziraphale remained sitting on the floor until he could see the sun shining through the windows.

He had to think. Armageddon was happening, and indecision was no longer an option. They didn’t have any time left to sort things out between them, to get their feelings in order. He couldn’t wait any longer. Aziraphale’s heart ached for Crowley, longing to hold him and adore him and love him. He had no more time left to wait.

He made up his mind.

At the bandstand, he broke Crowley’s heart, and his own. He had no other choice.


	9. The End Times

Crowley was sure he was screwed. If Hell found out he’d fucked up the whole Antichrist business, well...he shuddered to think of what they’d do to him. He’d already Fallen, the only punishments left for him were torture and extinction. It comforted him to know that at least Aziraphale would only risk a reprimand at best, and Falling at worst, for his role in the whole plot. It was terrible, Crowley knew firsthand how terrible Falling really was, but it was surely better than what he was in for. Aziraphale still seemed worried, though, and rightfully so.

They’d met at the bandstand, and things were going poorly right from the start. Aziraphale had called him there, and yet he had no news on the whereabouts of the Antichrist. It seemed like... _ it seems like he’s given up _ , Crowley thought, as Aziraphale excused their failures as an inevitability of the Great Plan.

“May you be forgiven,” the angel said in reply to Crowley’s frustrated criticism of the Great Fucking Plan. But that statement alone made the demon’s heart sink, settling somewhere far too low in his chest, tangled in something seething and dark and  _ afraid _ .

Aziraphale always forgave Crowley.  _ I forgive you _ , he’d say, anytime Crowley would blaspheme, or get a bit carried away with his wiles. Hearing those words of forgiveness, even when used in a lighthearted and teasing way, from the angel whom he most revered and adored was always a much-needed comfort, deep down. And now Aziraphale no longer forgave him. Could no longer bring himself to pretend that Crowley could be forgiven, could be saved.

“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever,” Crowley snapped, the inky black feeling seeping out of somewhere deep inside him, from the void where Her love used to be, leaked into his words and clouded the edges of his vision. “That’s part of a demon’s job description. Unforgivable, that’s what I am,” he spat, letting his self-loathing rise to the surface, since there was no point in hiding it anymore.

“You were an angel once,” Aziraphale said, sounding somewhere between exasperated and pained. 

“That was a long time ago,” Crowley replied, his words mirroring the ones Aziraphale had spoken in the 1800s:  _ We may have both started off as angels, but you are Fallen _ .

Crowley bit his tongue sharply at the memory, letting the pain in his mouth keep him attached to the present, and he drew his focus back to the task at hand. The task of desperately trying not to lose Aziraphale and the Earth all in the same day.

“We find the boy; my agents can do it,” he said, trying to direct the conversation back into a productive direction. To remind Aziraphale that it wasn’t yet time to give up.

“And then what? We eliminate him?” Aziraphale asked, sounding apprehensive. They’d had this conversation before, only then they’d thought they’d be killing Warlock.

“Someone does,” Crowley said, shrugging a shoulder in a faux-casual way, “I’m not personally up for killing kids.” 

“You’re the demon, I’m the nice one,” Aziraphale said defensively, and it was one further stab to the growing wound in Crowley’s chest. “I don’t have to kill children,” he continued, “If you kill him, then the world gets a reprieve and Heaven does not have blood on its hands.”

“Oh, no blood on your hands? That’s a bit  _ holier-than-thou _ , isn’t it?” Crowley’s voice rose sharply in anger. He had seen all the blood which permanently stained Heaven’s hands—some of it was his own Damned blood. The blood which remained within him now began to boil at Aziraphale’s statement.

“I am a great deal holier than thou,” Aziraphale retorted, sticking his nose in the air like he did whenever he made a particularly unpleasant, but accurate, judgement. “That’s the whole point,” he said, more softly, but no less wounding. 

Crowley could’ve cried, then, had he not been too blocked up with rage to allow his corporation shed a tear.

“You should kill the boy yourself.  _ Holi-ly _ ,” he mocked, something within him still desperately clinging to the hope that they could fix this, and being foolish enough to try once more.

“I am not killing anybody,” Aziraphale said tartly, frowning deeply down at Crowley from where he sat on his metaphorical high horse. 

“This is ridiculous.  _ You _ are ridiculous. I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you,” Crowley snapped, words tumbling from his mouth quickly, before his brain could catch up.

“Well, frankly, neither do I.” 

Well, that was it, then. As it went in 1862, so it goes again. Crowley could only play the fool for so long.

“Enough, I’m leaving,” Crowley said lowly, scowling as he turned on his heel to stomp away.

“You can’t  _ leave _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale called, catching his attention, drawing him slightly back, the angel’s finger tugging at the strings of Crowley’s heart, frayed and fragile, but still there. “There isn’t anywhere to go,” Aziraphale sighed, looking at him with pity.

“It’s a big universe,” Crowley said, tossing his hands up in a vague gesture around him, surrendering to the angel’s gravitational pull. He allowed his momentum to carry him into one final leap of faith, one last desperate attempt to salvage something of their relationship. “Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo,” he started, not allowing himself to shudder at the thought of that, “we can go off together.” 

He stared at Aziraphale, jaw set in tense anticipation, eyes wide and pleading behind his darkened lenses. The angel took a breath, then spoke.

“Go off together? Listen to yourself.” The harsh words, spoken so softly, delivered a devastating blow, and Crowley could physically  _ feel _ it, like a hard slap across the face. Aziraphale had just said to him,  _ oh, you poor deluded creature, you’ve got it all wrong _ .

“How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!” Crowley growled from his chest, his voice threatening to break around the words as they travelled through his throat. Six thousand fucking years and this is what he gets? Six thousand years of devotedly worshipping at the altar of Aziraphale, just to be told he’d been a fool all that time? He couldn’t believe it. 

Except, he could. He just never  _ wanted _ to believe it. But he knew how lonely life could be for supernatural beings, and he knew how Aziraphale thrived off of attention and the belief that he was doing  _ good _ . And Crowley was certainly a project in that department. He gave the angel all the rapt attention he could ever ask for, and Aziraphale could justify it by claiming to help the demon be just a little bit good. 

Crowley’s mouth went dry and his limbs felt heavy and numb. Aziraphale was speaking, and it was the same as ever. He’d heard it plenty of times before.

“Friends? We’re not friends,” Aziraphale denied, just as he had denied in 1862 ( _ fraternizing _ ), just as he had in 1601 ( _ he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before—we don’t know each other _ ).

Aziraphale carried on, though. “We are an  _ angel _ and a  _ demon _ ; we have nothing whatsoever in common,” he said, as if it were the most frustratingly obvious thing in the world. 

_ What ever happened to ‘you were an angel once’? _ Crowley wondered. Aziraphale was a walking, ethereal contradiction, but Crowley was too far gone to figure out which argument the angel truly meant.

“I don’t even like you,” Aziraphale finished, voice trailing off into something of a whine, and he looked away from Crowley and to the side guiltily. Lying, and putting on a show of it.

“You doooo,” Crowley drawled, imploring the angel to be sensible and realize their only hope of getting through the end of the world was to do it together.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you,” he said, more firmly, and Crowley felt his corporation, much like a lead balloon, sink even further into the pits of dread. 

Aziraphale knew where the Antichrist was, Crowley was certain of it; the angel’s tone left no room for doubt. He knew, and he wouldn’t tell Crowley.

“We’re on  _ opposite sides _ ,” Aziraphale stressed, frustration leaking into his voice at having to spell it out for the foolish demon. Crowley assumed that’s what it was, anyways. What else could it be?

“We’re on our side,” Crowley argued weakly, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. That tired argument clearly didn’t hold weight anymore, but muscle memory forced him to bring it up.

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley. Not anymore,” Aziraphale said gently, tenderly reaching out and severing what was left of their Arrangement (and pruning whatever relationship had bloomed in its wake). “It’s over.”

“Right,” Crowley bit out, lungs feeling as if all the air had been punched out of them. “Well, then…” what else was there to say, really? He had nothing left to say but, “Have a nice doomsday.”

Crowley felt horribly, utterly, earth-shatteringly betrayed. Not only by Aziraphale’s denouncement of their relationship, but by himself, for allowing this all to happen. For allowing himself to play the fool for 6,000 years, all the while telling himself that he wasn’t. If he had known it would all end like this, shrugged off like an abandoned puppy at the end of the world, then he never would’ve held back in doing what he pleased, in showing Aziraphale his affections, for a single moment.  _ At least that way _ , he thought,  _ it would’ve been over sooner _ .

Crowley’s heart—his  _ soul _ , the entirety of his immortal being—ached. He couldn’t stop loving Aziraphale. The anger he’d had back at the bandstand had burned out of him so quickly it left him feeling hollow and empty, and starving for something to fill the void. But the thought of his bed, the thing he’d built to be soft and warm enough to give the illusion of completeness, now just made him feel sick. He knew that retreating to his plush nest of blankets and pillows would only make him feel worse, knowing that it’s nothing compared to the plush angel, who had just delivered his death sentence.

He felt lost, untethered, and hopeless.

And then it got worse.

Hastur and Ligur were coming for him, and it would be his end. Either he would kill them and seal his fate for extinction, or they would kill him right then and there. Crowley wouldn’t go down without a fight, no matter how depressed he was, but he was generally more inclined to flee. So, in a final fit of desperation, he got into the Bentley and hurtled towards Soho, towards Aziraphale and his beloved bookshop. He had one last chance at this.

He screeched to a stop on the pavement outside the bookshop, where Aziraphale was walking. Crowley threw himself out the driver’s side door and leaned over the Bentley’s roof to call to the angel, engine still running, ready for a quick getaway.

“Angel! I’m sorry, I apologize. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it,” he shouted desperately for Aziraphale’s attention. “Work with me, I’m apologizing here!” 

Aziraphale’s face flashed a few fleeting expressions too fast for Crowley to decipher.

“Yes? Good, get in the car,” he said hastily, gesticulating somewhat madly between the passenger side of the Bentley and Aziraphale.

“What? No,” Aziraphale finally spoke up, sounding taken-aback by the demon’s boldness in the wake of their most devastating row. But he had already decided to let his desperation be worn plainly for the angel to see.

“The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault,” he said quickly, trying not to stumble over the words in his haste, and trying not to choke on the fear creeping up his throat. “But we can run away together. Alpha Centauri. Lots of spare planets up there, nobody would even notice us!” He begged.

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale admonished, of course, because they’d had this same conversation at the bandstand. They were a broken record. “Look, I-I-I’m quite sure if I can just—just reach the right people,” Aziraphale babbled, “then I can get all this sorted out.” 

“There aren’t any right people,” Crowley said, voice coming out forcefully as anger and old hurt began to rise within him once again, “There’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and  _ not talking to any of us _ !” He was shouting by now.

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it,” Aziraphale said, the matter-of-fact tone he’d given his voice failing to completely conceal his underlying nervousness, but Crowley could hardly care. It was the fact that the angel, after everything, still had such blind confidence, blind  _ faith _ , and it would mean their destruction.

“ _ That won’t happen! _ ” Crowley snapped, “You’re so clever, how can somebody as clever as you be so  _ stupid _ ?”

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said slowly, in his holiest tone of voice, so condescending it was almost sarcastic.

“Oh…” Crowley breathed, and his throat felt like it was on fire. “I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving,” he yelled, moving to get back into the Bentley. “And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even  _ think _ about you!”

But Crowley was not going to Alpha Centauri. He was going back to his flat in Mayfair, where he would meet Hastur and Ligur, and fight for his life. But Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. Even if the angel truly didn’t care for him, he would rather have Aziraphale believe Crowley had run off into space and lived like a coward than died at the hands of his fellow demons like a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, the angst clears up in the next chapter, which will be posted at some point this weekend. there's about 2 chapters left, maybe 3 depending on how long they end up being...thanks for keeping up with this story!


	10. Time to Wiggle-On

It was, without a doubt, the worst day of Crowley’s life. He’d thought it couldn’t get any worse than the day he Fell, but here he was slumped over in a pub, lungs burnt from smoke, body aching from stress, eyes tired and cheeks raw from crying. It was the end of the world, and he was all alone. His best friend, his  _ only _ friend, the love of his life, was gone, killed, ripped from the Earth in the blazing inferno that took his shop and books along with it.

But then, a presence flitted into the space before him, a warm and familiar consciousness brushing against his own ever so gently, and it took his breath away. It was Aziraphale.

Crowley was so relieved he was almost pissed off. More than anything, though, he was absolutely elated to once again feel his angel’s presence. Warm and soft and inviting, in the most all-encompassing and wonderful way. Like slipping into a hot bath; sinking into the warm embrace of a soft bed, of Aziraphale’s arms.

The angel’s disembodied voice called out to him, reaching his ears from somewhere far away, reverberating through subspace.

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things,” Aziraphale said, sounding guilty.

Crowley gave him a sympathetic look without denying his statement. Aziraphale had, of course, made a mess of things—Crowley was intimately aware of that. But he was drunk and giddy in the angel’s presence.

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale asked, as if he were inquiring about weekend plans, and the normalcy of it would’ve made Crowley laugh if he hadn’t been quite so drained.

“Nah,” he drawled, shaking his head only slightly, the world around him swirling enough to threaten his balance. “Changed my mind. Stuff happened,” he swallowed thickly, the words starting to stick in his throat, “I lost my best friend,” he said, voice breaking, giving Aziraphale a miserable smile.

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” he replied, as if he didn’t know Crowley was talking about him. 

Crowley might’ve kissed him, if Aziraphale had been inhabiting a corporation. He longed to wrap himself up in the angel’s arms, to sink into the embrace and simply be held, safe.

“Listen,” Aziraphale continued, “back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Crowley’s voice broke as he gazed into the space he knew Aziraphale inhabited.  _ He didn’t know _ . “Look, your bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?” 

“I’m really sorry, it burned down,” he broke the news gently but didn’t beat around the bush. He knew how much the bookshop meant to Aziraphale—it was his home, his safe space, much as the Bentley was for Crowley.

But, almost as if through divine intervention, Crowley had taken the very book Aziraphale needed, the very book that could save their lives, and the Earth.

“Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Where are you?” Crowley asked desperately. He couldn’t do this alone, and he needed to be with Aziraphale again. Needed to see him, needed to feel him, to know he’s real.

“I-I-I’m not really anywhere yet. I’ve been discorporated.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s heart ached.

They agreed to meet at Tadfield Air Base, to face the apocalypse, together.

“I just need to find a receptive body. Harder than you’d think,” Aziraphale explained.

“I’m not gonna go there…” Crowley mumbled, the double entendre not lost on him.

“I do need a body...pity I can’t inhabit yours,” Aziraphale said, half laughing, and it was doing funny things to Crowley’s already mixed-up feelings.

“Angel, demon...probably explode,” he said, despite it being the very thing Crowley had desired for millennia.

“So I’ll meet you at Tadfield,” Aziraphale shifted their conversation back to the task at hand, as the time for the end was drawing ever nearer. “But we’re both gonna have to get a bit of a wiggle-on,” he said, his voice growing more distant, as if he was already beginning to leave.

“What?”

“Tadfield Air Base,” Aziraphale called, fading into nothingness.

“I heard that,” Crowley started, before realizing the angel was no longer there. “It was the ‘wiggle-on,’” he said, scrunching up his nose in a teasing but fond kind of way.

...

His day certainly didn’t get any easier—what with his stroke of demonic genius from the 1970s coming back to bite him on the M-25, and his beloved Bentley being reduced to ashes on the pavement outside the air base, not to mention stopping time and pulling himself, Aziraphale, and the Antichrist into another dimension, before staring Satan himself in the face—but it was ok. He was ok.  _ They _ were ok; all of them, humans, angels, and demons alike.

Armageddon had been averted. They’d gone against all existing conceptions of the Great Plan, for all intents and purposes against God herself, and they were still standing. They had not been struck down for their hubris. They may yet be punished as traitors by their respective head offices, but the Almighty, it seemed, didn’t have a problem with their actions.

He felt ok.

Exhausted beyond belief, but ok. He hadn’t felt so worn out—physically, mentally, spiritually—since he had Fallen. But the world was still turning, and he was, at least somewhat, back on speaking terms with Aziraphale. And that was certainly nothing to sniff at given their recent experiences.

They waited together at the bus stop in Tadfield, sharing a bottle of wine neither of them could remember acquiring. The night was warm, and Aziraphale was warm beside him, but the angel’s good mood was fragile, and had deflated at the reminder of his bookshop’s untimely fate. It broke Crowley’s heart to see him so sad, knowing exactly how it felt to lose your home, your safe space. To feel lost without that place to return to. So Crowley offered his.

They sat quietly, side-by-side on the bus where they usually sat one behind the other, slinking through the streets of London as they made their way towards Mayfair. They both knew this wasn’t over yet; they still had to figure out Agnes’ final prophecy and save themselves from the consequences of their actions. But neither could bring themselves to speak yet. So for now, they waited, sitting beside one another, shoulders and knees pressed together, surrounded by the ambient noises of the city, muffled through the glass of the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters left guys!! the next one is probably gonna be a little angsty, but the last one will be softer than aziraphale...hope y'all enjoy, and I'm totally open to suggestions for my next fic!


	11. Restlessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some minor references to trauma/depression in this chapter, but nothing very explicit or anything like that. just a heads-up in case anybody's super sensitive to that kinda thing. it's in the 2nd to last paragraph, when Crowley is talking. again, very minor, but better safe than sorry :-)

Aziraphale had never visited any of Crowley’s residences throughout history; he’d seen them from the outside, and looked in through open doors on occasion, but had never crossed the threshold. He and Crowley were both aware of this as they stepped into the flat in Mayfair, Crowley letting Aziraphale enter ahead of him as he held the door. 

Aziraphale wandered further into the flat as Crowley lingered near the door, making sure the locks were secure and the curtains were drawn tight. The sound of the angel’s gasp in the other room drew his attention, setting his nerves alight once again, and he came rushing towards the source of the sound.

Aziraphale was stood in the doorway at the end of the hall where he kept his plants, looking down at something on the floor. Aziraphale turned towards Crowley as he rushed in somewhat clumsily, coming to a halt and nearly bumping into Aziraphale’s back in the process.

“What’s happened here?” He asked Crowley, looking between him and the puddle of rancid goo on the floor.

“Oh, yeah. Tha’s Ligur,” he shrugged, adrenaline draining from him as he realized Aziraphale was not, in fact, in danger, or hurt. “I’ll clean that up later,” he mumbled, pushing past Aziraphale and stepping around Ligur’s remains to enter the room and plop himself down in the throne behind his desk. He’d been aiming for nonchalance, like _yeah, killed a demon today, no biggie_ , but he got the distinct impression he hadn’t managed to pull it off. The look Aziraphale was giving him certainly wasn’t casual by any means. It was more...horror, and something else...maybe guilt? 

Aziraphale followed him into the room quietly, waving his hand and making Ligur disappear in the same moment as an armchair popped into existence adjacent to where Crowley was seated. Aziraphale chewed on his lower lip as he sat down, not quite looking at Crowley, but probably thinking about him.

“Did you...did you use the holy water? On-” Aziraphale gestured to where Ligur used to be.

“Yep,” Crowley replied shortly, not really wanting to talk about it. Aziraphale, thankfully, took the hint.

After a few more quiet moments, they began to figure out a plan to survive their respective executions. Once they had decided, they just had to wait until morning to implement it and hope they’d gotten it right.

Crowley’s eyelids were heavy and he felt slow and unsteady.

“Still a while before dawn, you should get some sleep. Had a big day, and all,” Aziraphale suggested. 

Crowley shook his head quickly, using the momentum to carry himself into a more alert sitting position, more reminiscent of the angel’s usual prim and proper posture than his characteristic sprawl.

“Nah, won’t be able to anyway. ‘S fine,” he said definitively. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Or he might be able to, but he couldn’t bring himself to try. He didn’t want to explain it. If he could just sit for a while, he’d be able to act like nothing’s wrong once the morning came. Aziraphale let it slide, and Crowley was thankful once again that he’d decided not to push the issue.

Morning came far too quickly. But even just sitting for a while in Aziraphale’s presence had restored enough of his strength for him to put on a believable show of _perking up_.

They switched bodies, and headed for St. James’s park.

If the situation had been any different, any less dire, Crowley would’ve devoted much of his attention to the feeling of inhabiting an Aziraphale-shaped corporation. That softness he adored now surrounded him, in a different way than ever before, and it was positively delightful. He still preferred the feeling of being cuddled against it, but he completely understood why Aziraphale had maintained it all these years. It was a very comforting feeling, to be soft, to not feel your bones against anything but your own body, to have someplace to rest your hands, to feel warm and protected in your own skin.

He didn’t have time to think about any of this, though, nor eat his ice cream, as they were quickly dragged away to Heaven and Hell, the time to execute their plan suddenly thrust upon them.

And they pulled it off flawlessly.

Crowley was still seething at how the archangels had spoken to him (as Aziraphale), and almost wished he’d breathed the hellfire a little more forcefully, just to singe them.

They swapped back to their normal appearances on the bench in the park, and sat for another few minutes, both of them feeling slightly giddy with adrenaline.

They dined at the Ritz, and let themselves enjoy the moment. They still had a lot to say to each other, and a lot to figure out about where they’d been and where they were going, but it could wait.

Crowley basked in the moment, enjoying himself vicariously as he watched Aziraphale enjoy the food. He let his adoration be worn plainly across his face, knowing that Aziraphale felt truly happy, safe, and _free_ now, more than he ever had. Crowley knew him well enough to know the anxiety would come, and would hit hard, but it wasn’t there yet, and for that Crowley was glad.

Afterwards, he drove Aziraphale back to the bookshop in his resurrected Bentley. The pair rode mostly in comfortable silence, only a few inconsequential words passing between them.

Crowley pulled up outside the bookshop and let the engine run, suddenly unsure of where they stood now. Aziraphale might not want him to come in, and Crowley didn’t want to presume. So he made the natural assumption that he would be returning to his own flat. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, that familiar pang of desperate loneliness and need, desire and heartbreak all at once. He was used to being turned away—why should he expect any different now?

But Aziraphale invited him in for a drink, and Crowley reluctantly agreed. It was their old routine, although this time it felt anything but. 

As they made their way inside, Crowley worried. He feared for the state of his heart when he was inevitably turned away once again, after having been let in so close, so much closer than before. He wondered how long it would take for Aziraphale to come back down to Earth (so to speak) and resume their usual cycle. He wondered if Aziraphale would ever truly accept that they really were on their own side, now.

Crowley could wait, he always had. But he feared he wouldn’t survive another heartbreak.

But he looked at Aziraphale, pouring wine for the both of them, and let his heart feast, ignoring its ache. Aziraphale was beautiful, and he was _here_ , and he could ask for nothing more.

The silence stretched on, being drawn into something more tense as they sipped at their drinks. They both knew that they couldn’t put off their inevitable tough conversation forever, but neither seemed willing to broach the subject first.

About halfway through Crowley’s third glass of wine, his exhaustion caught up with him once again, crashing down like a brick to the head. He was _drained_. But Aziraphale seemed too preoccupied to notice.

“I suppose we still have...some things that need mention,” Aziraphale said into his own glass.

“Some other time, angel. Today’s been enough as-is,” Crowley protested. He was not in the mood to have any sort of meaningful conversation. He was too tired to have to wade through his most turbulent feelings and relive past injuries. 

“I really think we should, though. We’ve put it off for far too long, and especially after everything that’s happened-”

“ _Leave it_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped. He was getting properly grumpy. Aziraphale huffed in annoyance and they stared each other down, Aziraphale’s blue eyes piercing through Crowley’s sunglasses straight into his own, as if the lenses weren’t darkened at all.

“If you’re going to act like a fussy toddler, then why don’t you go take a nap,” Aziraphale said, more teasing than cruel, but Crowley withdrew in response, growing unexpectedly cold. 

Aziraphale thought a teasing reference to their days with Warlock shouldn’t have upset Crowley, so maybe it was something else. He held his ground.

“Seriously, Crowley, I’ll still be here in the morning, you should go to bed if you’re so tired.”

“It’s not as easy as just closing your eyes,” Crowley grit out through his teeth, “just have trouble sleeping is all,” he finished in a grumble.

“You’re exhausted, dear, it mustn't be too difficult,” Aziraphale argued. Crowley felt something within himself snap, then, and the flood of emotions that had previously resided in the pit of his stomach surged violently throughout his body. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know _why_ I can’t sleep, angel? Why I’m so _fucking exhausted_ I feel like I could die but I just can’t _fucking sleep_?” He growled, sitting up on the sofa and balling his fists on either side of his body. Aziraphale looked surprised, and maybe concerned; Crowley didn’t give him a chance to respond before carrying on.

“All the _shit_ that’s happened, every horrible, nasty thing that’s happened to me in my entire wretched existence—comes back to remind me it’s happened every time I try to sleep! I close my eyes, and I can _feel_ Hastur and Ligur standing over me; I wake up feeling my feathers being _ripped out_ after drowning in _boiling sulphur_ ; I lay in bed desperate to fucking _sleep_ but I can’t do anything except _lay there_ and feel miserable! It’s not so _fucking easy_ when even the softest bed in the _entire damn world_ just reminds me of what I can’t have—what I don’t deserve; that I’m a _fucking demon_ that has to _suffer_ for _all eternity_!” His voice was hoarse from shouting by the end, and Aziraphale was staring at him, agape, and silent.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Crowley said quietly, burying his face in his hands, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead in the process. He was shaking, and felt incredibly vulnerable. “I never asked to be a demon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is gonna be pure fluff and sweetness, I should be posting it tomorrow or wednesday (aug.12), so keep an eye out!


	12. Happily Ever After

Aziraphale felt any remaining bit of stubbornness crumble as he watched Crowley drop his head into his hands, the demon’s shoulders shaking, the anger in his voice fading into something so small and weak. He’d never realized the full extent of what Crowley had been through, not until that very moment. Aziraphale had never seen him break like that before. He’d seen him furious, and scared, and sad, but nothing like this. It was as if everything he’d been holding in for his entire existence had finally broken free, and it was too much for him to bear. 

It broke his heart that Crowley had felt like he had to keep these things from him, that he’d unintentionally added to his suffering over the years.

“Oh, _Crowley_ , I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said gently, moving from his favorite armchair and settling on the sofa beside Crowley. He was about to reach out and place his hand on the demon’s shoulder, when Crowley spoke.

“Forget it, angel. ‘M just being dramatic,” he sighed into his hands, then let them fall to his lap, revealing his face, cheeks ruddy red and eyelashes damp. “Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since Rome, ‘m just on edge an’ taking it out on you. Don’t apologize.” He was staring off into the middle distance, somewhere on the floor between the armchair and the far wall.

Aziraphale brought his hand to rest on Crowley’s shoulder, lightly at first, then more firmly when he saw how Crowley reflexively leaned into the touch.

But the mention of Rome sparked some memory in him—the night Aziraphale had slept for the first time, at the inn after far too many drinks with Crowley. The morning after which he’d woken up alone and hungover, assuming Crolwey had left in great haste. _Was that Crowley’s last good night’s sleep? Surely not, it couldn’t be_.

“Tell me about it?” Aziraphale requested softly, beginning to rub soothing circles with his thumb onto Crowley’s shoulder, anxiety easing as Crowley melted into the touch.

Crowley shrugged, and the slight movement caused his glasses to fall back down onto the bridge of his nose; he lifted his hand to pull them off and set them aside before speaking. “You were there, you know ‘bout as well as me,” he mumbled.

So it was that drunken night. But Crowley had been just as drunk (and even more so) other times since then, so it wasn’t the effect of the alcohol that helped him sleep. _What was it?_

Another, deeper memory stirred in Aziraphale. The feeling of a body pressed against his own, hot breath ghosting across his skin, a lanky figure engulfed in his arms, soft hair beneath his fingertips. It was all sense-memory, fuzzy and dream-like, warm and content and very much real. Contrasted by the sharp memory of Crowley’s glasses on the ground when he’d awoken, Aziraphale had forgotten entirely about what had happened before he had woken up. But he remembered now, and finally understood.

It was his presence, his body and the physical comfort it provided that helped Crowley sleep. They had cuddled that night, and never since. 

_Even the softest bed in the entire damn world just reminds me of what I can’t have—what I don’t deserve..._ Crowley’s words echoed in his mind with this new realization. Was he...was Crowley comparing his bed to...to Aziraphale? That must be what he meant; Aziraphale was acutely aware of each time one of them had brought up their ethereal/occult differences...did Crowley mean _he_ was what the demon didn’t deserve, what he couldn’t have?

“Was-was it...in Rome...was it _me_ , that-” Aziraphale asked, somewhat at a loss for words, overcome with emotions. His hand had stilled on Crowley’s shoulder, and the demon finally looked up at him, though only for a moment.

Crowley looked back down at his hands in his lap, giving a shrug and noncommittal grunt in reply. Aziraphale knew him well enough to recognize that as a resounding _yes_ , laced with the embarrassment of being caught-out.

Aziraphale would have none of that, and instead of pushing the subject verbally, he decided to go about this in the way he knew was certain to get things done. He pulled Crowley into his arms, manhandling him somewhat, and held him there, tense and on-edge, his cheek pressed between his own shoulder and Aziraphale’s chest, hands still firmly planted in his own lap. Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s back with his palms laid flat—gentle, long, smooth movements—until Crowley finally relaxed in his arms, letting out a shaky sigh that turned into a hiccup, and Crowley turned his head and buried his face in the angel’s chest, letting out a sob. 

Aziraphale held him as his body trembled, gasping and crying, soaking the fabric of his shirt. He held him there tightly for a long while, until Crowley’s sobs dwindled into shuddering breaths and sniffles, his body gone limp and pliable in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh darling,” Aziraphale breathed against Crowley’s hair, keeping one hand securely on his back and letting the other move up to stroke the soft copper-colored locks. “You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?” He mused softly.

Crowley sniffled, nodding against his chest, before picking his head up, the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt sticking to his cheek slightly as he pulled away, making a face. Aziraphale gave a small huff of laughter and miracled the wetness away with a thought. Crowley mumbled something that almost sounded like _thanks_ and rested his head once again, shifting his body slightly to be more comfortably situated in Aziraphale’s arms.

“‘S just something about you, angel, tha’s...I dunno. Comforting, I guess,” Crowley said, his hands fidgeting with the bottom hem of his black t-shirt, like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Unsure if he could touch Aziraphale, unsure if he should.

Aziraphale reached down and stilled Crowley’s hands with one of his own, and lifted them up to his lips, pressing kisses onto his knuckles, one for each hand, before guiding them to wrap around his waist. Crowley happily obliged.

Settling into this new embrace, Crowley spoke again, as if finishing his previous thought, voice muffled by the angel’s shirt: “you’re soft.”

Aziraphale felt an unpleasant tickle at the back of his mind at that, remembering what Gabriel had said to him recently, had _been_ saying to him for hundreds of years, but he knew that’s not what Crowley meant. He could feel the adoration radiating from the demon in his arms, and it was his very softness that brought Crowley so much comfort.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Aziraphale smiled. He knew he still had a lot to apologize for, but for now, everything was alright. He was soft, and Crowley was in his arms. They were safe, and he was in love. He could feel that Crowley was, too. It surrounded them, an aura of pure, otherworldly, unadulterated love, emanating from both of them.

Crowley felt better than he had in a very long time. Aziraphale held him in his arms, warm and soft and _heavenly_ ; his cheek was pressed against the angel’s chest, his arms wrapped around the angel’s plush middle. Aziraphale was rubbing his back gently, and his limbs felt like they were made of jelly. He had entirely melted into the embrace. He wasn’t worried, anymore. He knew they would be alright, even once this moment had passed. He let his heavy eyelids close, and allowed himself to drift into sleep, held safely nestled against Aziraphale, finally feeling better.

He awoke some time later, disoriented, his head fuzzy and limbs weighed-down with sleep. His cheek was pressed against something incredibly plush, and he was surrounded by something warm and heavy. In an instant, he remembered. But instead of fleeing, he smiled and snuggled in further, and was rewarded by a happy noise coming from above him, and the arms around him tightening somewhat. His pillow—Aziraphale’s soft stomach—rose up and down slowly as the angel let out a sigh of contentment, and Crowley could feel movement on his back, Aziraphale’s thumb rubbing small circles against the spot where his wings would be. 

He was utterly at peace, more comfortable than he had ever been before.

Crowley cracked one eye open to take in his surroundings—the room was dimly lit by the golden morning light filtering in through the curtains; the world was quiet, and he was happy. Aziraphale’s hand brushed up over his shoulder and stroked his hair gently, and Crowley sighed happily at the touch, shutting his eyes and nuzzling his nose into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley sighed, pushing himself up slightly to stretch, and smiled at Aziraphale when their eyes met. The angel looked adorably tousled, and returned his sleepy smile with one of his own. 

Crowley settled back down, laying on his side, body pressed along the length of Aziraphale’s; his head rested on the angel’s shoulder, one arm tucked beneath him, the other draped over Aziraphale’s middle, his hand placed over his ribs. Aziraphale shifted effortlessly into their new embrace, letting one hand rest on Crowley’s hip, and bringing the other to lay atop Crowley’s, as the demon gave a light squeeze to the softness of Aziraphale’s side.

“Feeling better?” The angel asked him, an amused smile playing at his lips, because he obviously knew the answer.

“Mhm,” Crowley hummed, letting his eyes close once again, moving his fingers against Aziraphale’s side to feel him, just because he could. He didn’t think he could ever tire of this. 

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and Crowley could feel it move him as much as he heard it. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hand up and down Crowley’s side slowly, luxuriously, “you left your glasses behind, in Rome.”

“Yeah?”

“I still have them,” Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley broke into a grin, propping himself up to look at the angel.

“You’ve had something of mine all this time, angel?” Crowley teased, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, smiling.

“I never got around to giving them back, and they were out of style by the time I saw you next anyway, and really, it’s not as if you couldn’t miracle up another pair,” Aziraphale babbled, and Crowley watched him with a fond smile. “Well, anyway, they’re in that top drawer, if you ever want them,” he finished, pointing over towards a desk in the corner of the room.

“I’ll have to wear them sometime, I think they’re good luck,” Crowley grinned, settling back down into Aziraphale’s arms. There was no force on Earth that could make him get up at that moment. And Aziraphale certainly didn’t mind.

They had all the time in the world, together, warm and safe and _soft_ ; the most perfect place to rest his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!! I hope you all enjoyed reading this, I definitely had fun writing it...  
> let me know what you think, and if you have any ideas for future fics I could write!
> 
> thanks for sticking with it, much love!! :-)


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